


Touch That Dial

by popfly



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Radio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 22:53:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popfly/pseuds/popfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shawzy is a DJ at the campus radio station, and Brandon likes his voice. A lot. They fight a little, they fuck a little, the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch That Dial

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://listedheart.tumblr.com/post/52944245334). Beta read by the lovely Danielle. For all of my #hockeygirlfriends/#birdsinthebush but mostly for my darrrrrrling/darlling Lacey.

It’s late. It’s really fucking late. It’s so late it’s practically fucking morning and Brandon should not still be awake. He also should not be so drunk, considering he has class in the morning, not to mention the fact that he’s definitely not legal to be drinking. But he has a passable fake and the bars further from campus are pretty lax about checking IDs, and he also has a beard that would put middle aged men to shame.

He slumps into the passenger seat of Jimmy’s car, because the other guys know better than to fight Brandon for shotgun, smirking at the grumbles as Nick and Jeremy fold themselves into the backseat.

Jimmy’s car is a beater, practically held together with coat hangers and bungee cords, so they’re stuck listening to the radio during the fifteen minute drive back to campus. It’s already tuned to the college station, some bland indie nonsense filtering through the shitty speakers, but Brandon’s too lazy with liquor and the late hour to lift a finger to change it. He’s squinting out at the fuzz around the streetlights, tuning out the chatter of the other guys, when the song ends and the DJ’s voice comes on.

He’s not saying anything particularly interesting - the name of the band and song, the time, and his name, Shawzy.

Brandon doesn’t know why that detail sticks with him when everything else is a whiskey-colored fog, but it does. So when he stumbles through his bedroom door a few minutes later he finds the focus to tune the radio on the alarm clock he rarely uses, swaying on his feet until he finds the campus station and then flopping face first onto his bed, fully clothed.

He passes out in seconds, with Shawzy’s voice in his ears.

 

The alarm on Brandon’s phone goes off what feels like seconds later, muffled because it’s still in the pocket of his cargo shorts, and he grimaces at himself as he digs for it, because the amount of times he’s fallen asleep in his clothes has ratcheted up to a number he’s actually kind of ashamed of. His phone is nearly dead, of course, and his head is killing him, but he can at least be proud of the fact that he doesn’t feel like he needs to throw up.

Small victories.

It takes him a few moments, face buried in his pillow while he tries to muster the energy to shove himself off the bed, to realize that his radio is on. And he has no clue why. He hasn’t used his radio since his parents bought him an iPod dock for his birthday, but he’d been too lazy to throw it out.

It’s tuned to campus radio, apparently, because the DJ’s irritatingly chipper voice is rattling off the call letters before going to commercial, and something about that niggles in the back of Brandon’s head as he rolls over gingerly, cringing when his head throbs, and getting to his feet.

Jesus, he’s still wearing his shoes. And they’re sandals, for fuck’s sake, he could’ve easily kicked them off before passing out. He really needs to say no to fucking Jimmy more often. Or at least on weeknights.

He slaps the radio off as he shuffles towards his dresser, gathering clean clothes and his shower stuff, and leaves the sandals behind when he leaves his room to head to the bathroom. The minty freshness of his toothpaste is calling his name, not to mention the giant bottle of Advil he and his roommates had all gone in on and keep in the cabinet under the sink.

Class is brutal, because gen ed requirements suck for the most part, and Brandon can’t remember jack shit about mythology no matter how hard he studies. His brain just isn’t wired that way. You want to talk about weird shit like who won which season of _Top Chef_ or who played right wing on the Blues’ top line in the late 80s, though - he’s your guy.

He has a few hours before his next class starts - one he actually enjoys, thank fuck - and usually he’d try to find one of the guys, dick around on the stretch of grass between the union and the library, or maybe even study, but right now he wants nothing more than to go home and nap. So he does, ignoring text messages from Jimmy that are random assortments of letters and pleas for coffee, and slouching across campus towards the blocks of shitty duplexes inhabited by students who don’t qualify for dorms.

The house is mostly quiet, all of Brandon’s roommates either at class or still asleep. Brandon actually strips down to his boxer briefs before falling into bed this time, stuffing a pillow under his cheek and crossing his arms under that, and right before his eyes slip closed they land on his bedside radio. The niggling sensation comes back, but it’s not bad enough to keep him awake, and soon enough he’s fast asleep.

 

Brandon’s a pretty good napper, but sometimes he has really fucking weird dreams.

They’re made even weirder by the fact that he doesn’t dream at night. He only dreams when he’s napping. And they’re vivid dreams, almost too detailed, like the exhibit of photorealistic paintings he’d been dragged to by an ex-girlfriend once.

The one he has during this particular nap is extra weird. He’s in class, laptop open in front of him with a document full of notes pulled up on screen, but he can’t hear the professor lecturing at all despite only being halfway up the hall. He can’t hear any of the other normal class noises - kids coughing or shifting in their seats, the _skritching_ of a pen from someone who still prefers handwritten notes. All he can hear is someone talking behind him.

But he can’t turn his head to look for the person. He can’t open his mouth to tell them to shut up. And he kind of doesn’t want to, either.

He wakes up hard, but with no real memory of the dream he’d had to get himself that way. He shrugs, slides his hand into his boxer briefs, and gets himself off.

 

He’s much more relaxed when he heads to his next class, clean pair of briefs on and rejuvenated from the nap and the orgasm. So when someone collides with him outside the arts building, sharp shoulder knocking into his biceps and making him stumble sideways into the bike racks, he doesn’t get upset like he maybe would otherwise. He just straightens himself up and makes to head into the building.

The guy who’d barrelled into him says, “Sorry, man,” and his voice brings Brandon’s head up, makes him turn around. The guy’s already heading off in the other direction, skateboard under his feet and giant headphones over his ears. Brandon watches his back as he weaves through students, watches until he turns the corner. The guy’s voice had sounded familiar, something in the gruff tone jogging something in Brandon’s memory, but he can’t put his finger on it.

It bothers him all through class, and he repeatedly looks over his shoulder like the guy is going to materialize, and he’s so out of sorts by the end of it that he realizes he’s barely taken any notes at all, and he has to ask the girl next to him to copy and paste hers into an email for him.

He can’t get his shit together for the rest of the day, and the relaxation he’d felt after his nap is totally gone, leaving a tension in his shoulders that he can’t get rid of. He goes to the wellness center to work out, lifting weights until sweat is dripping into his eyes, and even then he feels off.

Studying definitely isn’t going to help, so Brandon watches a few episodes of a show he’s already seen on Netflix, then settles into bed with a textbook to try to bore himself to sleep.

He’s still awake a few hours later, staring at the ceiling, textbook laying forgotten on the mattress beside him. He rolls his neck to try to loosen himself up a little and his eyes catch on his alarm clock. On a whim he gets up and flips the radio on, climbing back under the covers while the song finishes up, and then he bolts upright when the DJ starts talking.

It’s the guy from earlier, outside the arts building, and he suddenly remembers the dream, and hearing him in Jimmy’s car the night before. The scratch in his voice already seems so familiar to Brandon, soothing in its roughness, that Brandon finds himself grinning, shoulders relaxing.

He also finds himself hard, which is only not weird because now he can remember his dream from earlier, and the guy’s voice is the same, and he lays back on the bed, palming himself through his boxers.

He eases up during the songs and commercials, and jacks himself tight and fast when Shawzy comes back on to talk, and comes so hard his muscles seize up while Shawzy talks about the upcoming pledge drive. He falls asleep soon after, loose and languid and smiling to himself while his eyelids slipped closed.

Brandon loiters outside the arts building two days later, rolling an empty coffee cup between his palms and listening for the rattle of skateboard wheels on pavement. Obviously he’s not sure if the guy - Shawzy - is going to show up, because even though Brandon has a routine for which routes he takes to which classes it doesn’t mean everyone does, and Shawzy could’ve been on campus before for something else. But he hopes, because he needs to get a look at the guy. The promo pic of him on the radio station’s website was too dark and grainy - fucking Instagram filters - to give him more than the impression of a pointy chin.

He’s about to give up and go inside, because he wants to see Shawzy but he doesn’t want to be late to class, when he hears a skateboard. He can’t see the rider yet, hidden behind a swell of people coming towards him, but he catches a glimpse of giant headphones that sends a thrill up his spine.

Shawzy arcs his body to swerve around into an open space on the sidewalk, and Brandon steps right out in front of him, making him curse and pull up short, planting a foot on the ground and stopping the skateboard with his other. He’s wearing those stupid puffy looking shoes that all the skater kids wear, and he’s got bad skin. He’s also glaring pissily at Brandon, but all of those things just make Brandon grin, and Shawzy sneers, kicking the skateboard vertical so he can hold it in his hands.

“What the fuck,” Shawzy says, in his voice that should be grating but instead makes Brandon feel warm all over, toes curling up a little in his shoes.

“You ran into me the other day,” Brandon says, because he hadn’t planned out what he was going to say when he finally got Shawzy face-to-face, and it’s the first thing he can think of that isn’t, “I jerk off listening to you on the radio.”

“And what, you decided two days later you want to fight about it?” Shawzy looks him up and down, and Brandon’s face flushes. It’s clearly sizing him up for a fight, but it still feels a little sexual to Brandon. Then again fucking and fighting are pretty closely linked in his mind, and Shawzy’s got a look about him that makes Brandon think he’s the same.

“Nah,” Brandon says, and grins down at him. because Shawzy’s a good four inches shorter than him, at least. “Just wanted to talk to you.”

“Why?” Shawzy’s squinting at him, suspicious, and Brandon can’t really blame him. He’s got to get to class so he cuts to the chase.

“I like your voice. I listen to your radio show, and recognized it when you ran into me - “

“I think you ran into me, actually,” Shawzy cuts in, and he tilts his chin up, challenging. Brandon laughs, he can’t help it, and Shawzy breaks out in a grin. “You like my voice, seriously. If that’s a pick up line, dude, it’s a pretty awful one.”

“Would it be alright if it was?”

Shawzy’s studying him, a scrutiny that shouldn’t be so hot but really fucking is. If he was going to say “no” he would’ve already, or at least Brandon hopes, so he stands still until Shawzy shrugs, and says, “Sure.”

Brandon will take it. He’s pushing it, time-wise, so he starts walking backwards towards the building, and Shawzy’s eyebrows climb his forehead. “You’re hitting on me and then ditching? What the hell?”

“I’ve got class.”

“Yeah, well, so do I and now I’m going to be late. Give me your number at least, asshole.”

Brandon shakes his head, still walking backwards. “Meet me after. At the coffee cart in the union.”

Shawzy’s jaw clenches, and he fiddles with the headphones hanging around his neck. “Fine,” he says, and Brandon leaves it at that, spins around before Shawzy can say anything, and nearly bounces up the steps to the arts building.

 

Brandon’s leg jitters through his whole class, and he’s nervous as hell navigating through the union toward the coffee cart. Shawzy might change his mind, or be totally awful, or hate Brandon. He puts on a little swagger, fake it ‘til you make it, when he sees Shawzy leaning against the wall near the cart, rolling his skateboard back and forth with one foot, headphones on, hands drumming on his thighs.

He’s really kind of a goofy looking kid, but Brandon still gets a little shiver up his spine when Shawzy looks up and sees Brandon coming, gets that defiant tilt to his chin, and it makes him nervy. He puts the toe of his shoe on the end of Shawzy’s skateboard, pulls it out from under Shawzy’s foot. Shawzy yanks his headphones off and glares.

“Is being a dick your way of coming onto people? ‘Cause it’s a pretty shitty seduction technique,” he says, and Brandon smirks.

“We’re getting coffee, not going to bed.”

Shawzy’s jaw works for awhile, like he’s chewing words, before he spits out, “You’re buying then, asshole.”

“My name’s Brandon, actually,” Brandon says, and Shawzy rolls his eyes.

“Just get me a latte. I’ll get a table.”

Brandon orders Shawzy a latte, and gets a mocha with an extra shot for himself, because he wants something syrupy sweet, and carries both cups to the table Shawzy’s sprawled at, slouching in his chair with his ridiculous shoes stuck out in the walkway. Brandon kicks one as he rounds the table, making Shawzy frown, and Brandon wonders if it’s weird that he’s so delighted by Shawzy’s attitude. But he can’t help it. It’s so cute.

“Thanks,” Shawzy says when Brandon slides his cup across the table towards him.

“You’re welcome,” Brandon says, and takes the lid off his mocha to blow across the top of it. “What’s your real name?”

“Andrew. Shaw. Shawzy’s a leftover nickname from junior hockey, most everyone calls me Shawzy.”

“You played hockey?”

Shawzy’s face lights up and he straightens in his seat. And Brandon finds that he’s just as cute when he’s excited about something and not being pissy, and they talk hockey and music until Shawzy has to head to his next class. When he checks the time on his phone he curses and chugs the rest of his latte, and then looks almost sorry when he says, “I gotta get to class.”

“Yeah, of course.”

He pauses with his phone half in his pocket, and Brandon just watches as he slides it back out, juggles it from hand to hand. “Give me your number,” he says, and it’s so close to a command, but Brandon can see the uncertainty in his eyes. Brandon rattles his number off, and goes to reach for his own phone, but Shawzy’s already lifting his headphones up over his head.

“I’ll send you a text so you have mine,” he says, and then, “thanks for the coffee,” before he hoists his backpack and walks away.

 

Brandon checks his phone every three seconds for the rest of the day, but no text comes through. He texts Jimmy, as a test, and it goes through fine, as does Jimmy’s response. He worries that Shawzy typed in the number wrong, and starts planning to show up early to class again the next week to try to catch him again.

He’s contemplating emailing him at the station when his phone lights up, lying next to his laptop on his desk, and Brandon snatches it up.

It’s Shawzy, _You gonna listen tonight?_

Brandon was planning on it, but he doesn’t want to give it to Shawzy that easily. _Was kind of planning on going to bed early._ he writes back, and then goes to flip on the radio.

_Bullshit._ comes the response a few seconds later, and Brandon grins down at his phone. He doesn’t write back, and as soon as Shawzy’s voice comes on the radio he stops what he’s doing, strips down and gets in bed.

It might be creepy to jerk off to his voice now that they’re maybe possibly dating, but Brandon can’t bring himself to care. Instead he texts Shawzy a few songs in with a request, and gets a _Knew you’d listen._ in response and fists himself under the covers when Shawzy’s voice crackles through the speakers. “This is a request, don’t get too excited, I have to play a certain amount of them a night.”

Brandon jerks himself faster, and comes before the song is even over.

 

The next morning Brandon rolls over in bed, gropes for his phone, and immediately texts Shawzy. _Wanna hang out tonight?_

He doesn’t get a response until he’s walking to his first class, and Brandon wonders how much sleep the kid gets if he’s on the radio all night and still awake at this hour. _Hang out?_ is what it says, and Brandon considers his options. If Shawzy has to work that night they probably can’t go out to the bars, and he doesn’t think Shawzy’s a traditional dinner and a movie kind of person. Besides Brandon’s a broke college kid.

_Come over and watch a movie or something?_ is what Brandon comes up with, because the idea of propping himself up against his headboard with Shawzy sprawled out at his side, sharing his laptop, is really appealing.

His phone vibrates in his pocket during class and he slides it out, keeps it in his lap when he swipes the screen to see the message.

_Can I pick?_

_We’ll see._

_I have to be done by 10._

Brandon sends back his address and suggests a time and gets a _K_ in response, and he’s pretty sure he’s going to spend the entire rest of the day smiling like an idiot, anticipation fluttering in his stomach.

 

Brandon loiters in the living room of the house until Shawzy shows up, leaning over the back of the couch giving his roommates shit while they play Call of Duty. He’s never been into first person shooters, even the online modes where you’re competing against other people. He’s more of a hand-to-hand combat kind of guy, although he’ll slaughter anyone and everyone in NHL ‘13.

The knock on the front door draws a little attention from Brandon’s roommates, their heads tilting in unison but their eyes staying locked on the screen, and Brandon waits until the second knock just to be a shit, then goes to answer it. Shawzy’s got his pissy face on, eyes narrowed like he can’t believe Brandon made him wait, and it makes Brandon smile, makes his stomach jump.

“Hey,” he says, and opens the door. Shawzy shoulders past him, and responds gruffly, and Brandon’s stomach jumps again.

“Come on up,” Brandon says, making his way towards the stairs, bypassing the couch where his roommates are now arching their eyebrows and smirking, glancing back now and then to see who Brandon is leading towards his room. Shawzy gives them a wave and follows Brandon up the stairs, down the hall to his bedroom, which he’d sort of neatened up by kicking things into piles.

He did make his bed, and his laptop is already laid out, Netflix window open. He also has a bag of Doritos that he’d bought on his way home from class, because he’s a good host.

Shawzy looks at the laptop on the bed, then back at Brandon with one eyebrow raised. Brandon just grins, hops on the bed and shimmies back until he’s leaning against the headboard, and then pats the comforter next to him. Shawzy still looks highly skeptical but he sits down, slides back, with about six inches of space between them. He reaches for the laptop immediately and Brandon reaches out without thinking, chops his wrist with the edge of his hand.

“What the fuck,” Shawzy says, and jerks his hand away. He doesn’t rub his wrist, but he holds it against his chest, and he’s nearly growling. It’s pretty hot.

“I didn’t say you got to pick.”

“So what, you want to fight me for it?”

Brandon hadn’t been planning that, no, but the defiant tilt of Shawzy’s chin makes him consider it. “I will, but you’ll lose.”

“Fuck that,” Shawzy says, and punches Brandon in the shoulder. It fucking hurts, Shawzy has some bony ass knuckles, and he may be a smaller guy but he put all his weight behind that one. Brandon reels back a little, heat flaring out from where Shawzy’s fist had connected with his arm, curling down his spine and settling low in his stomach. He punches back, because he thinks Shawzy kind of wants him to.

He gets him in the same spot, and he doesn’t pull his punch, and Shawzy looks like he’s about to tip over off the bed, so Brandon reaches out and grabs his arm, fingers pressing right under where he’d just punched him, and Shawzy hisses.

They stare at each other for a second, and Brandon notices they’re both breathing a little hard, and Shawzy’s got a flush spreading over his cheeks, and Brandon really wants to kiss him.

He squeezes his fingers a little harder, and Shawzy’s mouth falls open, and Brandon thinks, _fuck it_ and then leans right in.

Shawzy meets him halfway, and their mouths crash together kind of hard, Shawzy’s chin banging Brandon’s jaw, but Brandon doesn’t care. He angles his head a little better, fitting them together, and then the kiss is pretty good.

Pretty great, actually, because Shawzy makes a little noise in his throat that rumbles against Brandon’s lips, and when he starts to grin against Shawzy’s mouth Shawzy licks right into it, and fists a hand in the front of Brandon’s shirt like he thinks Brandon’s going to pull away.

The kiss is a little sloppy, but Brandon likes it, likes the way Shawzy seems to constantly be trying to take control of it, and Brandon fights against it a little at the beginning, twisting to get their heads aligned the way he wants, before giving in.

Shawzy seems surprised at first, almost pulls away, but then takes over, getting a hand around the back of Brandon’s neck and squeezing, making Brandon shudder. Shawzy presses forward, hand still fisted in Brandon’s shirt, knuckles digging into his sternum, until Brandon tips sideways onto his pillows, bent a little awkwardly and not caring in the slightest. Shawzy follows him down, bites at his bottom lip.

They’re not pressed together anywhere but their mouths, Shawzy’s kind of kneeled over Brandon, his fist against Brandon’s chest, and Brandon loves lips and knuckles, but he’d love getting their hips flush even more. He nudges Shawzy’s knee, trying to get his own leg underneath it, trying to get Shawzy to straddle him or least lay on top of him or something, but he kicks out a little hard and his foot connects with his laptop, and the cracking sound of his toe against the casing makes them jerk apart.

“Shit,” Shawzy says, and sits up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as Brandon reaches for the computer. It’s fine, and his toe is fine, and he just wants to get the damn thing off the bed so they can keep making out.

“Sorry, I’ll move it,” Brandon says, but Shawzy clambers to his feet.

“No, no, we should,” he says, and his voice is rougher than usual, his chin red and raw from Brandon’s beard, and Brandon wants to get him back on the bed in any way he possibly can. He’s considering tackling him and just using the floor instead, but Shawzy continues with, “We should watch a movie.”

“What?”

“A movie. That’s why I’m here, right?”

“Well yeah, but,” Brandon trails off, scratches at his chin. “Was the kissing not good?”

Shawzy blushes so red Brandon can practically feel the heat rolling off his cheeks. He gets all defiant again, which just makes it cuter, and folds his arms. “It was fine, it’s just - “

“Just fine?”

Shawzy rolls his eyes and Brandon grins. “Shut up, dude. It’s just that you asked me over here to watch a movie, not to punch you and then try to get in your pants, so we should watch a movie.”

“You were trying to get in my pants?” Shawzy looks like he might give up on the movie and punch Brandon again anyway, so Brandon holds up his hands, placating. “Dude, you can totally get in my pants without even trying. That would be very okay with me. You did not see me protesting either the punching or the kissing, did you?”

“No.”

“Okay then.” They’re at an impasse, and eventually Brandon sighs. “Fine. Just sit back down and we’ll watch a movie. And you can pick, and no more punching.”

Shawzy glares a little longer, but then gets back on the bed, and doesn’t protest when Brandon presses their legs together, pulling the laptop up to balance across their thighs. Shawzy starts scrolling through the movie choices, and Brandon leans in close to talk right in his ear.

“Next time,” he says, and feels Shawzy shiver against him. “You can punch me _and_ get in my pants.”

Shawzy clicks something in the thriller category and doesn’t speak until the loading percentage is at about 80%. “Fine,” he says, his voice rasping, and Brandon grins as he leans back against the headboard.

 

The next time there is no punching, because Shawzy barely waits until Brandon’s bedroom door is closed behind him to shove Brandon down on the bed and lay right on top of him, sliding his hand down Brandon’s stomach and right under the waistband of his jeans.

He attaches his mouth to Brandon’s neck, biting at the skin under his ear, and then down to his shoulder, chin digging into the muscle there before he bites down again. Brandon groans low and long when Shawzy’s fingers close around his dick, hand barely able to move under the layers of denim and cotton. He’s basically just twisting and squeezing, but it’s enough to get Brandon off ridiculously quickly, still fully clothed and with Shawzy’s teeth making marks in his skin.

“Jesus,” he breathes, when Shawzy’s dragging his hand out of Brandon’s pants, and Shawzy lifts his head to smirk while he wipes his hand right on the front of Brandon’s shirt. Brandon glares, though weakly, and then uses what strength wasn’t just wrung out of him to flip them over.

Shawzy’s eyes go wide, but he doesn’t fight back, in fact he almost goes completely still when Brandon gets his hands on Shawzy’s shoulder and presses them back into the mattress. He’s panting, still, chest rising and falling rapidly, and Brandon digs his thumbs under Shawzy’s collarbones, hard enough to hurt.

Shawzy grunts, and his spine arches, then bows, hips lifting off the bed.

“I’m going to blow you,” Brandon says, and Shawzy nods slowly, then shakes his head and grits his teeth.

“Do it, then,” he says, and Brandon will never get enough of his voice, especially now when it sounds like it’s scraping right out of his throat.

“Stay down,” Brandon says, pressing against Shawzy’s shoulders extra hard before letting go and shifting down his body, shoving his shirt up to lick at his abs, and then opening his jeans and yanking them down around his thighs.

He leaves them there, keeping Shawzy’s legs still, and puts one forearm across Shawzy’s hips. Then he licks around the head of Shawzy’s cock, slick with precome and flushed red, before sucking it in.

Shawzy stays down, but he’s got this full body shiver going like he’s clenching his muscles so tightly,trying to stay still, that they’re quivering, and it makes Brandon suck harder, hollowing his cheeks, taking Shawzy deeper until he’s almost gagging. Shawzy pants and groans and curses a few times when Brandon uses his free hand to tug at his balls, and when they draw up tight he lifts one hand to tap Brandon’s head, saying shakily, “I’m close.”

Brandon circles his fingers around the base of Shawzy’s cock and slides them up to meet his mouth, then takes him in deep as he goes still then shakes apart, coming in hot spurts on Brandon’s tongue.

Shawzy’s hand stays on the back of Brandon’s head, fingers cupping his skull, and Brandon lays his cheek on Shawzy’s thigh until Shawzy curls his fingers tighter, makes Brandon slide up to lay next to him in the bed.

“Fucker,” Shawzy says, voice raw, and Brandon grins, pressing his teeth against the hinge of Shawzy’s jaw.

“What’s with the post-coital name calling?”

“I didn’t even get to punch you first,” Shawzy says, and Brandon just laughs.

 

“This is a dedication,” Shawzy says, voice coming through after the commercials finish up. Brandon glances back at the radio, fingers still poised over his keyboard, mid-sentence in the paper he’s finishing up for class tomorrow. “This should get you up, if you aren’t already.”

The song starts, and it’s nothing Brandon’s heard before, all crashing guitars and some dude screaming, and it’s awful, but it makes him laugh. His phone buzzes, and it’s Shawzy, because it usually is nowadays.

_It’s for you, by the way._

_It’s terrible._ Brandon writes back, and saves his document, closes his laptop. He’s climbing into bed when Shawzy responds.

_I know, just like you. Bet you’re jerking off anyway._

Brandon had admitted his new nighttime ritual to Shawzy two weeks after they met, and Shawzy’d just laughed, and then used it as an excuse to be extra ridiculous on air, practically crooning his links and promos.

He palms himself through his boxers now, cupping himself with one hand while he types out a text message to Shawzy with his other.

_Sure am. Get back to work._

He works himself to the edge through three songs, more in a row than Shawzy would usually play, and grins to himself when Shawzy comes back on, sounding smug and a little dirty when he says, “Three in a row, because I can. But I have a little story before I cut to commercial,” and proceeds to blather on about nothing for a solid minute, voice low and gruff, and Brandon comes all over his fingers right as Shawzy finishes up. “Alright, back with more music after this break. Hope that worked.”

Brandon wipes his fingers on his boxers and tosses them across the room, then falls asleep grinning at his radio.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still making hockey pals, and even though the season is almost over (sob sob sob) I'm always excited to make more. I'm usually on Twitter during games ([@popflies](http://www.twitter.com/popflies)) and then trawling tumblr after to reblog alllllllll the gifs ([popfly over there](http://popfly.tumblr.com)). <3


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